


Jean Prouvaire Ditches the Hair

by MrSandman



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (i wasn't aware that there was a separate tag for that but there you go), (or rather the AU that this is meant to be part of is a coffee shop AU), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Crying, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grantaire Offers Moral Support And Voice Of Reason Services, Kissing, M/M, Men Crying, Oblivious Jehan, Pining, Pining Courfeyrac, Poetry, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 12:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6519790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrSandman/pseuds/MrSandman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What in god's name have you done to your hair?"</p>
<p>Jean Prouvaire gets a makeover, Courfeyrac is confused and unhappy (and maybe a little (a lot) smitten), and Grantaire wishes he got some recognition for the number of times he's gently pointed his hapless friends in the right direction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jean Prouvaire Ditches the Hair

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic is probably a couple of years old, but I have a habit of writing things and then letting them gather dust on my computer rather than posting them, so here it is, finally! (I've thoroughly dusted it, I swear...)
> 
> I'm fairly sure this was beta-ed by wordonawing back in the day, but she's definitely forgotten by now, and honestly, assume any and all errors are mine.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, natch, and I'm not making any profit from this - only for fun, folks!

"What in _god's_ name have you done to your hair?"

Courfeyrac lifts his hand, as if to stroke what's left of Jehan's plait, then drops it quickly. 

"I had a haircut. What does it look like?"

"Yes, I can see that. I just meant, I thought you were going for a trim, not a shearing!" Courfeyrac stands up and goes to stand behind Jehan, making a twirling motion with his hand so his best friend will spin around for him, albeit a little overenthusiastically. 

So overenthusiastically, in fact, that when he finally comes to a halt, he topples sideways, and Courfeyrac only just manages to catch him before he hits the floor of the Musain.

Courfeyrac does not get butterflies when Jehan smiles up at him dazedly. He doesn't.

"Well, what d'you think?" Jehan's voice is a little breathy as a result of the aforementioned spinning.

Courfeyrac remains silent. How can he break it to Jehan, his best friend, who he'd never want to offend, even hurt, under any circumstances?

"Well?" Jehan is looking at him expectantly, waiting for his answer.

"Um."

"'Um'? What does 'um' mean?" Jehan's mouth is beginning to turn down, and Coureyrac feels so bad, but he just can't tell Jehan that his new hair is awful, because it just isn't... Jehan.

"Well, it's..." Courfeyrac just can't force his mouth to form the words. 

"Hey, you had a haircut Jehan?" Grantaire sticks his head out from under the front counter, giving Jehan a smile and Courfeyrac a knowing look.

"Yeah, I have," Jehan says proudly, running a hand up the back of his new 'do. "Do you like it?"

"Yeah, it's nice," Grantaire says carefully, "but why did you decide to get it done like that? I thought you loved your plait."

"I did," says Jehan, biting his lip, "but I thought it was probably time for a change. It's not like anybody has a plait nowadays, huh?"

"Well, no," Courfeyrac butts in, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. "But then, you aren't anybody, are you? You're you - you're whoever you want to be."

"Well this _is_ who I want to be," Jehan says, his hand going to twirl his plait, then flopping uselessly to his side as he remembers. "At least, this is how I want to look, anyway."

And this is essentially how Jehan responds, although he phrases it slightly differently, the next time Courfeyrac sees him, sitting in his favourite chair in a corner of the Musain and sipping a cup of peppermint tea. 

This wouldn't normally affect Courfeyrac so much. But then, Jehan wouldn't normally be wearing black skinny jeans and a band t shirt, and he certainly wouldn't be found without flowers about his person. 

With his new hair and clothes, Courfeyrac almost doesn't recognise his best friend. But then he's being beckoned over to Jehan's corner and poetry is being forced into his hand by the very eager poet.

"Before I read this," Courfeyrac starts, reaching out to tug at Jehan's t shirt, "what's with the new wardrobe?"

"I was just tired of being thought of as just "cute"," Jehan says forcefully, almost spilling his tea as he stomps his foot to emphasise his point. Courfeyrac thinks it serves only to undermine it, considering Jehan looks absolutely adorable.

"But... You don't even have daises in your bootlaces," Courfeyrac says, dumbfounded.

"No, I don't, now read this," Jehan says, thrusting the poetry under Courfeyrac's nose, making it clear that the discussion about his appearance is well and truly over.

And so Courfeyrac reads the crazy, overlapping lines of poetry, in the messy scrawl that Jehan only resorts to when his usual neat, elegant copperplate isn't fast enough for his speeding freight train of thought.

And so Courfeyrac praises Jehan yet again, and wonders how so much talent fits into one small person.

And then Courfeyrac makes his excuses, saying he has a lecture. Jehan snorts and says that he'll only fall asleep in it anyway, but hugs him tightly with his arms around Courfeyrac's neck and kisses his cheek. Courfeyrac does not blush when Jehan kisses him. He doesn't.

Courfeyrac is sure this has to be the last of it. His best friend in all the world can't change any more than this. He just can't.

But Courfeyrac is wrong. When he pops over to Jehan's to borrow a book that the poet had been nagging him about for months, Jehan opens the door to the sound of some cheesy dance classic that Courfeyrac had been completely obsessed with a couple of months back. And he's wearing eyeliner. Lots of it. Which admittedly is a little hot, but _so_ not Jehan. 

Instead of asking for the book, Courfeyrac cocks his head a little and asks haltingly, "no Edith Piaf?"

Jehan shakes his head. "No one listens to that stuff anymore. So, what brings you to my doorstep?"

Courfeyrac is frozen for a second, the song still blaring out of the speaker in the corner of Jehan and Grantaire's living room. "Book..." he mumbles, and Jehan nods like he understands, and hurries into his bedroom to find it.

Courfeyrac takes an unsteady step into the flat and catches Grantaire's eye.

"What-" he starts to say, before the song changes, and, "-is that... Is that _Fall Out Boy?"_

Grantaire shrugs as Jehan returns from his room holding the book out to Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac repeats his earlier question, which isn't so much a question as an exclamation, since Courfeyrac would know a Fall Out Boy song anywhere, as soon as he'd heard the first couple of bars, and Jehan nods enthusiastically. He starts rambling about how he's discovered whole new genres of music, and Courfeyrac quickly takes the book from him. Normally he'd be completely immersed in conversation with whoever about lyrical techniques and the like, but to hear it coming from Jehan just feels wrong.

"I er... I have to go to a... a thing," Courfeyrac stammers, backing away a little. The corners of Jehan's mouth turn down, and Courfeyrac feels terrible, but he just can't sit there and listen to this new Jehan talk about rock music with his band t shirt and his short hair.

Courfeyrac makes it out the door clutching the book, sharing a slightly frazzled look with Grantaire as he crosses the threshold, and hurries around the corner and into the stairwell. 

As soon as the door swings shut he leans against the grimy wall and slides down into a sitting position, scrubbing a hand over his face. He rubs his eyes, feeling an awful prickling at the back of his eyes and in his throat. But Courfeyrac will not cry over a boy. He won't. 

But it's not just any boy, is it? It's Jehan, _his_ Jehan. Or, it _was_ his Jehan, before he decided to become completely and utterly _ordinary_.

And that's when it really hits Courfeyrac hard. Like, hits him so hard that he has trouble breathing for a second.

That little crush thing he's had on Jehan since the day he met him? Not really a crush any more.

Because, and Courfeyrac could kick himself, it took him so long to notice, he's most definitely in love with his little poet. Well, the little poet that _he_ knows, not this walking cliché of a person.

He picks up Jehan's book from the concrete beside him, smoothing his fingertips over the cover before turning to the first page.

Skipping ahead a couple of chapters (because right now he really isn't in the mood for closely studying the text), a crumpled napkin falls out the book and onto his lap. Courfeyrac picks it up and sees Jehan's writing. It's obviously the result of an impromptu moment of poetry in Grantaire's coffee shop without a piece of paper handy.

Reading over the lines of poetry winding their way over the napkin, Courfeyrac feels a strange sense of nostalgia for Before Jehan, the Jehan who used to dip the end of his plait in Grantaire's brightly coloured paint to match his ribbon, and who would make daisy chains and drape them around the necks of the Amis, whenever they sat outside for lunch on the grass in the summer. The beautiful poetry is all that is left of that Jehan, and who knows how long it will be before the new Jehan decides that poetry isn't 'cool' enough for his new persona?

Courfeyrac barely starts when the door to the stairwell creaks open, and a body slides down the wall next to him.

"Oh Courf," Grantaire sighs, and Courfeyrac buries his face in Grantaire's shoulder, crumpling Jehan's words in his fist. Grantaire pats his hair and says nothing.

"What happened to him R?" Courfeyrac's voice is muffled against Grantaire's hoodie. "I don't... I don't like this Jehan. He's not... Jehan any more."

"I know," Grantaire says, and then, "You need to talk to him, tell him how you feel."

"But if that's who he wants to be, then I can't exactly stop him, can I? Besides, soon he'll make a whole new set of friends to go to gigs with or whatever. Not like he'll have time for us, will he?" The "not like he'll have time for me" is unspoken, but Grantaire hugs Courfeyrac tightly, and Courfeyrac knows Grantaire hears it anyway.

"Look, I promise you that Jehan's not looking for new friends. I've talked to him, okay? No, I'm not going to tell you what he said," Grantaire admonishes, holding up a hand when Courfeyrac lifts his head a little and opens his mouth.

"But-"

"Go talk to him yourself," Grantaire says firmly, halting Courfeyrac's protests. "You won't solve anything by moping in a disgusting stairwell. Go," he prompts, unwinding his arms from around Courfeyrac's shoulders and standing up, hauling Courfeyrac to his feet.

Courfeyrac hesitates, but one sharp look from Grantaire has him scooping up Jehan's book, stuffing the crumpled napkin in his pocket and hurrying back to Jehan's door.

Courfeyrac knocks hurriedly, trying not to overthink things. He hears the sound of bare feet pattering across the hardwood floor, before the door is flung open and Courfeyrac meets Jehan's slightly surprised amber eyes.

"Oh," Jehan mumbles, glancing at the ground. "I thought you were R."

"Nope, I'm not," Courfeyrac says unnecessarily. He shifts from foot to foot awkwardly, feeling suddenly nervous.

"Can I talk to you?" Courfeyrac blurts as Jehan says, "Why are you here?"

"In private," Courfeyrac adds.

"Yes, of course," Jehan says, stepping aside and allowing Courfeyrac to pass into the living room.

Courfeyrac perches on the back of the sofa and picks at a hole in the knee of his jeans. Jehan stays standing near the doorway, eyeing Courfeyrac curiously but not pushing him to speak.

"So, look," Courfeyrac starts, ready to get everything out in the open. "Recently you've... Changed a lot. And I know that change can be a good thing and all, but... I don't..."

"You don't what?" Jehan's face is blank but his voice is soft, and Courfeyrac isn't sure how to finish his sentence.

"I... Plait" he stutters helplessly, staring at the floor.

"Wait, you've been acting weirdly around me for weeks now because I cut my hair?"

"Not just the hair," Courfeyrac says, finding his voice. "At first it was just the hair. Then it was the pop punk and the band t shirts and black skinny jeans and goddamn guyliner, and I just-"

"But I did all that for you," Jehan blurts. Courfeyrac looks up sharply.

"What?" Now Courfeyrac is confused.

"I was trying to be your type of guy," Jehan mumbles, avoiding eye contact. He's blushing slightly, his cheeks tinged a delicate pink, and Courfeyrac has never been so mesmerised.

"You were..." he starts, studying Jehan's steadily reddening face.

"I thought if I listened to your music and dressed like those guys you normally pick up at clubs, maybe you'd..."

"Maybe I'd what?" Courfeyrac just has to hear Jehan say it out loud. Otherwise he can't believe it's not a dream. A ridiculous, wonderful dream.

"Maybe you'd want to go out with me," Jehan whispers, his face now a spectacular shade of beetroot.

"Oh Jehan," Courf says, shaking his head in amazement. He should have guessed, really. He does have bit of a thing for that kind of guy, though he doesn't like to admit it.

"Did it not work? I knew it wouldn't work," Jehan says frustratedly, running a hand through his hair. 

"No, Jehan, it didn't work," Courfeyrac says, watching Jehan's shoulders droop. "It didn't work because I loved you before all of this, back when you were an ink-stained, flower-adorned poet, who sang along to Edith Piaf at the top of his voice, and skipped down the street because walking was too ordinary, and didn't care what anyone else thought." 

Now it's Jehan's turn to look up amazed. "What?"

"I love you, Jehan, you idiot. Have done for a while, even if it took me ages to figure it out. You never had to try and win my affection. I love you for you, whether you're a pocket punk or my perfect poet."

"I-"

"So can we just skip the whole palaver and fast forward to the part where there's kissing?" Courfeyrac looks at Jehan hopefully, knowing that the poet won't be able to resist his puppy dog eyes.

Jehan steps forward, hesitates, then steps forward again. He repeats this several times until he's standing toe-to-toe with Courfeyrac looking up at him, a shy smile on his face.

"Yes," he whispers, "yes we can."

And so they do. And it is good.

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually due to be part of a multi-part Coffee Shop AU that I was going to write, but I have no idea when/if I'll write the rest of it, so I wouldn't recommend watching this space for too long, as it'll be only slightly more interesting than watching paint dry, I suspect!
> 
> Feel free to follow me, or send me an ask/an IM, on tumblr - I'm kingisdead!
> 
> (((Comments, bookmarks, kudos etc. are much appreciated!)))


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